ultraviolence
by Gray Doll
Summary: It's always at night, when she hears tell of serial killers and corrupt cops and prostitutes and gang shootings down dirty alleyways, when she closes her curtains to the sight of broken streetlights and shiny black cars. -― Noir AU


**a.n./** another asoiaf modern au, YAY. sansa & men and generally dynamics between sad, vain, lost, broken people, is my favorite thing these days. i honestly always, _always_ wanted to write this, i just never knew how it was going to turn out. so it practically wrote itself. i'd love to know what you think of it, what you liked, what you didn't like, and answer any questions you may have. thank you for reading!

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**.**

_But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling._  
>― Margaret Atwood<p>

**.**

**.**

**ultraviolence**

**.**

**.**

**(now)**

Her smile is a little cruel, a little sad, a little strange. She's pointing a gun at the back of his head and he can see the curve of her lips through the mirror she's made him kneel before.

And he thinks:

_When I was thirteen years old I paid a man to beat my seven year old brother until he almost died. He was beautiful and funny and nice and everyone wanted to be surrounded by his innocent light and his warmth like donning cloths of a vibrant gold; everyone liked him and everyone smiled at him. When I was thirteen years old I paid a man to beat my seven year old brother because no one liked me._

After he grew a little, after he got past that point where he was nothing but big words and sneers and teenage bullshit, he killed. It doesn't matter who, it doesn't matter when. The point is, he's killed, flicked cigarette butts at the sight of soul leaving mangled skin, blood clotting under his shoes. She had asked him once, when her voice was still soft and timid like a chirp, _Are you sorry?_ She had asked him that, because he'd been frowning down at the body, and he had said, _No, my shoes got fucking dirty_.

He was to be the new ring leader along with his brother, his perfect golden pretty smiling stupid little brother, and then the entire crime syndicate his grandfather had meticulously built had crumbled like paper cards, or something like that. He doesn't quite remember it; he doesn't remember much, right now, but if there's a thing that he does remember, with aching clarity, is blood, red and dark and thick like the color of his family;

He remembers pinning a girl to a wall and kissing her with a hunger and desperation rotting his insides, making his chest thrum, his head feel like it was about to burst. He remembers coming away from the kiss with his hands stained red and glistening in the dim lamplight of the alleyway, and he remembers holding a knife-

But there is nothing now, none of it, but this moment right here, him on his knees, his reflection in the mirror. Through the stained looking glass, she could be made out of moon slivers, and were he not tied at both the wrists and ankles he thinks he would have floated right up to her, to the messy strands of red hair falling around her face, to her smile that is a little cruel, a little sad, a little strange.

And he thinks:

Cruel, the way she's stepping closer, the way the muzzle rests against his hair almost like a lover's caress.

Sad, her weak grip on the gun, the way it tightens ever so slightly when she sees him staring.

Strange, how she's not pulling the trigger.

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_Sandor has his top buttons popped and booze brimming in his eyes, toting a smile that is really a silent grunt like a bomb about to go off. The wars are over, people tell him, but he's not convinced. He doesn't think wars ever end._

_You see, his gun – it's always aching for the trigger to be pulled, for the bullet to fly. His mind, it's always hurting and spinning **and** laughing at him. His chest, it's always numb._

_It is now, but he keeps his eyes on the old clock propped up on the shelf in the corner._

_He's counting the seconds, silently, hand clasped around a bottle that was full a minute ago. Tick, tock._

_The door swings open and Jaime saunters in, slaps a hand down on the bar, lifts it again in time to catch the glass sliding across the polished wood. Silently, he's counting heads, bringing the glass to his lips. One, two._

"_Where's Baelish?" he asks when he realizes there's one missing._

_Tick._

_Sandor lifts his head. His head fucking _hurts_. He does not want to think about this. He does not want to- "Are you talking to me?"_

_Jaime smirks. "I see no one else here."_

"_You've got your bloody answer."_

_Tock._

**_._**

**(then)**

**.**

"Sansa bought a gun."

Margaery tells Dany this as she's brushing red over her lips, smiles to see how it looks in the dim lamplight; doesn't know why she bothers to paint it on so perfect when it's going to be kissed off later. But she likes this, this science – yes, this is a science, no, don't convince her otherwise. The science of a steady hand painting a new face, every single time: anyone you wanted to be.

A few nights ago she was someone who was filled to the very brim with gentle smiles and quiet laughs and pretty doe like eyes. Tonight she is someone who is going to be pushed against a wall and kissed senseless. Something brushes down her spine, the ghost of a lingering hand. She's gotten good at not shivering anymore; she caps her lipstick.

_Sansa's getting doll dizzy_, she thinks.

What she says is: "She's getting brave."

"Is that what it takes to wield a gun, then?" Dany asks lounged in a corner of the room, careless and graceful, hair combed to look like an amazon's. "Bravery? I always thought you hid behind one."

Dany is the fickle silence before the storm. The air crackles with lightning unstruck when she speaks.

Margaery thinks of Sandor Clegane, of his whiskey breath and his whiskey eyes and his awful language, of his scars and his hair looking like a dangerous man's hair. She used to think he looks dangerous too, but he's tired, isn't he? She thinks of all the looks that have passed between him and little Sansa, full of things she's still determined not to make sense of. "Sandor carries a gun," she says. "He's the one who taught Sansa how to shoot."

She isn't expecting Dany to laugh, but the other girl does; short and quick, like coughing out smoke. "He tried to get her away, brought her back to Baelish again, and now he's putting a gun in her hand. Does he know what he's getting himself into?"

"Oh, Dany." Margaery turns around, runs her hand down her pencil skirt. "Give him a little credit."

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_For a man with lies for words and so much red on his hands, Petyr sure knows how to touch a girl. _

_Tenderly, the back of his forefinger brushing against the rise of her cheekbone, traveling down to her neck. He touches with the utmost care, as if he's afraid to bruise, and every move is staged, every whisper of his lips against her skin calculated. Never clumsy. _I know you_, he seems to say._

_She feels the cold steel of his gaze the minute she steps into the room._

"_You came," is all she seems able to say, and it doesn't sound enough – at the same time, it sounds too much, too big, too full of things she doesn't really want to make sense of, and he simply shrugs._

"_You left your window open," he says lightly, and when he comes closer to stand next to her, "I'm glad you did." He sounds so relieved when he says this that Sansa almost falls for it – that this man could have any ounce of belief in his body that she could ever deny him._

_When he kisses her it's with a hunger she's not unfamiliar to, because it's been inside her too, times and times before with Sandor, when things were less sad and less complicated; when she was just the little girl trying to run away and Sandor was just the foul mouthed big man helping her and Petyr was just the Lannisters' adviser. Simple times, she thinks. Sometimes she'd like to turn back time, and some other times she thinks that's stupid._

_In the morning Sansa wakes to him tracing patterns down her spine, the feeling of his arm wrapped around her waist, the soft press of his lips against her shoulder. _

_(He will smile a little and say, "Good morning."_

_She'll turn away, and there will be a lump at her throat. She will not see his smile drop, the first time._

_But she won't miss the second; it is when she whispers, to herself, really, that she wishes she could have shared this with Sandor; that, at least, she wishes she could have had this with someone she loves.)_

**.**

**(now)**

**.**

"Go ahead, sweetling," Petyr urges quietly. His eyes look a little too dark with the way they glow, watching so reverently. Like he's just found religion:

like she's his new religion.

It's a lie, of course – because dangerous men with impeccable tailored suits and cigars held between their fingers, guns hidden in their coats and lies tucked carefully under their tongues? They're like gods. Her father had been killed by one of them, and so had her entire family after him, and now so did her best friend; and it is almost ridiculous how she used to think it something beautiful, something divine to be killed by them. Like the stained glass that colors the bellies of once great cathedrals. Like expiring in the arms of a god.

She knows better now.

Those men who smile like their teeth are made of bullets, they make all the rules. It's a point-shoot view from where they are, and immortal or not, they relish in the thought of being godless. Being bound to nothing but their own rules of their own game.

But listen to _her_ now. Does she look nervous to you? Her grip on the gun is not sweaty, her fingers do not tremble. Don't _rush_ her.

She tries not to feel bound. He nods, once.

She doesn't think he listens, despite his careful nodding, but he looks at her. Carefully, reverently. Hands clasped behind his back, and if eyes alone could talk his would always be hushed, like he's afraid she will run at any moment, or maybe she will fly, and she thinks he always looks like he's tending a herd. Sheep flocking at his feet, oh the irony; and how dark his eyes do look, like there is light in him still and they're tasked with containing it in.

He's standing beside her; his body almost touching hers. "You can do this," he says, and his voice is quiet. Petyr's voice is always quiet, lately. "Like you've always talked about," he continues. "Pull the trigger."

She swallows. He's not the one on his knees before the mirror, but he might as well be praying.

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_With his trench coat wet from the heavy rain, Jaime walks over to Sandor in this dim, smoky room and asks, "Any clue where the Stark girl is?"_

_Sandor gestures for another drink. "None."_

"_Heard you've been giving her shooting lessons." Jaime leans in close, fixing him with a gaze that shouldn't be so piercing and Sandor has to fight down the urge to gauge his eyes from their sockets and watch him cry blood. "Now why would the little lady want a gun when she has her pretty face?"_

_Sandor gives a non-committal grunt before downing the rest of his drink._

"_Don't you think you've had enough?" and there's a hint of worry now in Jaime's voice, but of course there isn't, because he's Jaime Lannister._

"_Look at you, playing the role you've been given." Sandor's lips twitch, and for a reason he does not want to put his finger on the burnt side of his face starts hurting, even though it's always numb. "How's the shiny new badge?"_

"_You mean the one you used to have? The one I took from you?" Jaime grins, now. He looks like gin would turn to blood and sulfur in his mouth. _

_It's a full moon, tonight. He remembers the little bird used to chirp and chirp and chirp, endlessly, about how she loved full moons. She's one of those people who assigned meanings to these things. Something of the position of it against the sun, something about the way it illuminates, making her believe that a full moon is somehow more than what it is._

"_Look at us," Sandor says mockingly, on a loud exhale of a breath, pushing the stool back to stand. He grabs his coat, leaves the bartender's head. "Monsters and broken creatures playing at men."_

_Men, a rung below demigods, immortals. And where do the monsters lay? They both require blood, so if he asked you, what would you say – where is the difference, really?_

_A shadow passes over Jaime's face. Thinking that there might be comeuppance isn't one of his favorite things to do, and discussion about blood turning to ash on a man's hands make him want to sneer. He swallows, buttons his coat all the way up._

_You tell me, dog, is what he thinks._

"_That was so fucking philosophical, Clegane," is what he says._

**.**

**(then)**

**.**

It's too quiet and dark a night for a girl to be walking home alone. Margaery knows this, but still her high heels trail the sidewalk and her fingers wrap around nothing in her pocket.

Doll dizzy, she thinks again, and is almost sorry. She shakes her head.

Because when she is pushed against the side of a stinking, crumbling building, when her head tilts back to allow a hot kiss, when a groan caught between pain and discomfort escapes her teeth, when her lips part into a silent scream, when her legs kick uselessly in the air, when her nails scratch and bleed and break, when her throat opens with a big, red smile-

–he says, "Damn. Sorry about that."

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_At night, when she hears tell of serial killers and corrupt cops and prostitutes and gang shootings down dirty alleyways, when she closes her curtains to the sight of broken streetlights and shiny black cars, when she does not miss her family so much, she thinks:_

_She used to be a girl once. She used to be a student and a budding pianist. Sansa the always smiling. Sansa the always lauded._

_She used to be a girl who believed in songs and movies and the silly notion that love and guns went hand in hand, that you did not truly love if it did not break you, make you bend over from the grief, the way her mother had cried when they'd found her father's body, the way Dany traces her fingers over the pages of old books a man whose name she has never spoken once gave her, the way Margaery would come to her with her lips bleeding and her eyes burning._

_The way Sandor downs one drink after another. The way he's become the one who can't look her in the eyes any more._

_The way Petyr comes, the way he always comes, at night: when she is in bed, when she is trembling from missing her family so much that the walls seem to shudder around her. He does not touch her (he has not touched her since), but he sits there on the edge of the bed, and he watches her. Watches her breath quiver around tears unshed, watches the ripple of her bright pink sheets in the tight grip of her fingers. He is not an angel watching over her; no, she sometimes thinks he is something more of the godhead kind, something that even the stars would not dare plot against._

_She looks into his face in those moments, expects to see something divine, but all she sees is her own eyes staring back._

_(Most nights, she falls asleep thinking of her father and his honorable face, her mother and her strong blue eyes, her brothers and her sister and their loud laughter, she falls asleep thinking of Sandor and the way his profile looks like hard lines burned into metal in the firelight. That night, she falls asleep and sees nothing but a pair of eyes, staring, staring, staring.)_

_They never tell you this in Sunday school._

**.**

**(now)**

**.**

Her hands don't sweat around the handle of the gun. In the dim light of the room, she might as well be holding a rosary; she might as well be praying to gods and demons and angels she isn't sure she ever believed in, in the first place.

Petyr's face is calm, his eyes locked with hers in the shadowed mirror, but she can almost hear the way his breath comes quicker and bounces on the walls, echoes back to them almost like benediction. His gaze is dark. She thinks of the stars at night and how she has been told that their death is something glorious, bright and hot and filled with a thousand colors, only to give way to an endless black. She thinks of how all men, at the end, are driven to the point of killing their gods.

She doesn't tremble. She doesn't shift her weight from foot to foot. She does not feel nervous, and she does not feel afraid. Her heart does not beat frantic; her breath does not come short and sharp, and she does not feel light headed at the sight of the kneeling man (boy, she thinks, he will always be a boy) in front of the mirror.

She does not pull the trigger, either – not yet.

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_She tells Margaery she bought a gun the same night Joffrey barges into their dressing room without sparing Sansa a second glance. He looks desperate and he looks ugly and he looks blue. He looks terrifying the way a serial killer might before he plunges a kitchen knife deep into your stomach and twists. He looks crippled the way old trees have no choice but to bend in the winter._

_Sansa is briefly reminded of reading yesterday's paper and seeing one of the biggest, most glaring headlines printed in soot black ink, reading about how the entire Lannister clan, save for the handsome blond gangster turned cop and the petulant young heir, had been murdered in their own house, pale cadavers swathed in blood and their silk cloths._

_Later, when she's finished applying her pink lipstick she will look into her mirror, not to admire how marvelously concealer hid the telltale signs of her recent insomnia, but to see Joffrey with his hands trembling against mahogany, shaking the table, almost shaking the entire room. "But, Margaery, didn't you hear me?" and his voice is high, his voice is desperate, his voice is a thing torn from his throat like a scream. "We can go. We can get out of here – I have the car waiting; we can be together. Margaery – I love you."_

_There's a beat of silence in which Sansa waits, Sansa holds her breath, and tries to remind herself that men do not really believe in gods. That guns and knives and blood and gold rule everything, that love is ash and lust and tragedy, that life is, at the end of the day, nothing but death._

"_Damn," Margaery says glibly, and does not turn away from her own mirror. "Sorry about that."_

**.**

**(then)**

**.**

The funeral is a quiet affair. Almost everyone stinks of alcohol.

Sandor's eyes are expressionless and everyone knows he'd rather be somewhere else; the dead girl was no one to him, after all. Dany is crying; her eyes are too bright under the gray sunlight, long silver hair a mess. Jaime, for once still and unmoving, is as though carved from marble, but his eyes are darting, quick. Some people are muttering, and it sounds like incantations, things to fill up the void left in their chests, the chill in their bones, the shake in their fingers.

Sansa has a lump in her throat. She's lost so many people; too many people, and like a child she always thought she would at least be able to keep her best friend. She was, as always, wrong.

When they lower Margaery's coffin to the ground, Sansa finally allows herself to cry, and when she feels Sandor standing close to her right, she almost expects him to place a heavy hand on her shoulder in a reassuring manner. Almost. What he does is stare straight ahead at nothing, the lines of his profile sharp, and Sansa's gaze is drawn to the silver glint of his gun in its holster.

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_Sansa wears black for a month. She keeps the gun in her purse for longer. _

_She loads it up, counts the bullets at night, and when Petyr shows up at her window as she knew he would, she says without shaking, "I could shoot you right now."_

"_Very good." He lifts his eyes. She has a black veil pulled down over her face and she has her gun pointing at him, hovering just between his chest and his head, like she's not sure which to blow apart. There would be poetic justice in a bullet buried in his heart, wouldn't there, she likes to think._

_He steps closer, the look in his eyes almost a dare, almost a tender one, all at the same time; he steps closer, until his chest is pressed against the barrel of the gun. "But you know I'm not the one you want to kill. I'm not the one who hurt you."_

_She swallows, shakes her head a little. He spends the night at her house._

**.**

**(now)**

**.**

"You're going to die, Joffrey," she says calmly.

She isn't afraid. Her hand isn't shaking. The gun won't go off in an accident, like the first time. It will go off when she wants it to. When she says so. It fills her with a perverse sense of gratification, and suddenly she knows why Sandor never looks at the bodies of the people he's killed in a drunken rage; losing control, that's something she hopes to never feel again.

Her eyes meet Petyr's in the mirror.

She has never seen him look so alive. She wonders, is this, the promise of blood and carnage and history altering, what makes a scheming dead heart pound?

She wonders, if he sees that in her. He must; she has a gun in her hand. She's pointing at the back of Joffrey's head. But her heart isn't pounding. Its beats reach her ears too slow, too quiet. It pounded the night Sandor first pushed her against a wall and kissed her and swore to rip the head off anyone who might bring her harm. It pounded the night Petyr brought his own lips to her, soft and almost tender that first time, and she couldn't help but make the comparison. It pounded the morning after, when she woke up wrapped in his arms, pounded the same way his did, his chest against her back.

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_Petyr's car is black but not too shiny and has comfortable seats, it's always clean and it smells of crisp morning air and pine. When she sits in the passenger's seat next to him, legs brought up to her knees, gaze alternating between his hands, light and effortless on the steering wheel, and the clean-cut lines of his profile, she thinks of Sandor's motorcycle, and the way his leather jacket felt against her body when she pressed against him, how the wind blew her hair all over her face when he went frighteningly past the strict speed limit on highways._

"_What is on your mind, sweetling?" Petyr asks, voice light and soft and sweet, and she swallows, rests her head against the rolled up window and trusts him not to steer the car too abruptly, because her head would bang against the glass at the exactly wrong angle._

"_Nothing," she says. "Nothing at all."_

_They're not really going anywhere; technically they _are_, because Petyr spent hours explaining to her how the appointment he's driving them to is oh so important about his financials, but she doesn't really care and she doesn't really want to. She's content enough looking out the clean window, trying to count the trees they pass by._

_They spend the rest of the day in silence, but on the drive back home, he tells her, "Then don't worry, sweetling. In a few months, you'll be thinking all the right things. You'll see."_

_(She doesn't tell him she really isn't sure she wants to see.)_

**.**

**(then)**

**.**

A week and a half after Margaery's death, Sandor teaches Sansa how to hold a gun. She's the one who insisted – for her protection, she'd told him, and he'd made a non-committal sound, bought her one the next day. He teaches her how to hold a gun, but doesn't teach her how to shoot it. She learns one day, accidentally – but that's a story for another day.

A hound and a little bird walk into a bar. Her hand is wrapped around the gun in her front pocket, and she's counting the tin cans lining the counter. She knows girls like her aren't supposed to be out and about at this late hour – but there's something about the way Sandor is walking steadily beside her, about the large shadow his body casts over her, about the way he doesn't talk much but always watches her, that reassures her. That makes her feel safe. That makes her somehow trust him, even though he did try to get her away from this shit pile of a city once and failed.

His eyes are bloodshot. He's drunk too much, she thinks, anything he can get his hands on, and he says, "It all tastes the same to me."

Later, he asks, "What do you really need the gun for?"

And she answers, "I already told you. I have to protect myself. You saw what happened to Margaery."

He grunts and orders a whiskey, and she fleetingly thinks that he might be laughing. She's not really sure; she's forgotten he can even smile. "Sure thing, little bird," he says, and downs his drink in three large gulps while she watches, eyes wide and jewel bright in the dim yellow lighting.

She swallows, feels the weight of the gun in her pocket pulling her to floor like lead, and averts her gaze. She wants to tell him, _Remember when I first got here? Remember when I was a pretty thing with blossoms weaved in my hair, remember when I had hearts for eyes and a big smile just for Joffrey, remember when everyone started dying, remember when you tossed me on your motorcycle and drove away into the night?_ Her eyes are suddenly burning with tears she will not spill; not until she's tucked inside her small room, alone, away, and now she wants to tell him, _Remember when we got caught and you killed five men to keep me safe, remember when it took four bullets inside you to stop fighting? Remember when they stripped you of your badge and forced you to work for Joffrey again, remember when I was put back inside my golden cage and Margaery came along, remember when she stole Joffrey's heart and everyone forgot about us? _

Remember when we were more than fallen angels and kings?

That day, in the cemetery, not so long ago, Sandor had left footprints in the mud, and he'd left without a single word once the funeral was over. Dany had held Sansa in her arms, but Sansa had stopped crying. She'd been whispering, over and over, "Come back, Margaery. Come back, come back, come back," until Margaery's name had become her father's, and then her mother's, and her brothers'.

Sandor asks her again, after a while, "Who do you need the gun for?"

She doesn't answer, because he ought to know. And, really, she's sure he does.

**.**

**(interlude)**

**.**

_She's mildly surprised when Jaime comes knocking on her door._

_His badge glints at her from where it's carefully pinned to his lapel. His shoulders never used to hunch like this. His hair never used to look so faded. He never used to look so beaten and old._

"_Look at you," she says quietly, the words leaving her mouth before she can stop them._

"_Look at me," he says from the doorway, voice soft. He doesn't ask to be let in. She's not sure she would have let him, anyway. You see, sometimes she leaves her window unlocked at night. Tonight is one of those nights._

"_Sansa," he starts, uncertain. _

_She waits. She wonders what he's going to say._

_'You look like an animal', maybe. 'Scared and cornered'._

_'You look like you need sleep', maybe. 'Tired, like we all should be'._

_'You look like you should let me in', maybe. 'Like you need someone with a badge and a gun to make you hot coffee and tell you everything's going to be alright'._

_'You look like you're about to do something reckless', maybe. 'Don't'._

_His mouth is a grim line, and his eyes are as hollow as her own. He says, "I'm sorry for your loss."_

**.**

**(now)**

**.**

Her eyes meet Petyr's in the mirror, and suddenly he's right beside her, nose almost buried in her hair, forehead close to hers. The sharp lines of his suit meet the soft curves of her dress. Her body fits against his in ways that something tells her it shouldn't, and suddenly she thinks of Sandor and his half burned face and his breath smelling like blood and alcohol. Petyr's hands travel from shoulders to to waist to elbows, holding her steady, holding her there. They wrap around her wrists; his thumb tracing her knuckles. Soothing her, maybe. Preparing her. She tries not to lean into him, stops her head from falling back against his shoulder just in time.

Joffrey watches with ardent disbelief that could very well be disgust, his lip curls, and the hairs at the back of his neck stand on edge, something cold and heavy and black resting at the pit of his stomach, coiling, clenching.

"You can do this," Petyr whispers. He presses his lips to the back of her neck as he murmurs her name. It travels down her spine, warms her up and makes her cold all at once, sends her heart into a tight hot frenzy for the first time that night.

She nods. Cocks her gun and smiles a little when Joffrey tenses visibly. "You're wrong, you know," she says, almost whispers. "I do have it in me. I had it in me long before you killed Margaery. I had it in me long before you sent men to drag my family from their beds and _slaughter_ them. I had it in me long before you made me watch my father's corpse sinking in canal water." She stops, swallows, takes a breath. "I had it in me the day you told me I was a shallow, stupid, useless waste of space."

Petyr has gone very still against her. He can probably hear her heart now, how it goes. She can hear his, too. She wonders how he is still on his feet with the way it sounds, like the wild claps of thunder, like hers. She knows if she doesn't kill Joffrey he'll do it himself – no loose ends, he is fond of saying, but he won't, Joffrey is hers. The thought fills her with something strange, burning and suffocating and vindictive; she is filled head to toe with it. She is fearless. She is – and yes, she can say it, finally, finally she's like the lot of them – godless.

"Does my uncle know about this?" Joffrey swallows audibly, blond hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. "And does my dog know you're pointing a gun at my head?" He's grasping at straws, reaching for names. Sandor his protector, Sandor his dog, Sandor her savior, Sandor the forlorn. "What would he _think_, Sansa? After all the trouble he got himself in to save you?"

She doesn't blink. Doesn't move. "Who do you think bought me the gun?"

He chuckles, and it sounds like he's choking. "Should've known."

"Damn," she says before pulling the trigger. "Sorry about that."


End file.
